


Twisted Confessions

by purkledragon



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-02
Updated: 2010-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-05 16:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/43804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purkledragon/pseuds/purkledragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How should one react to a brother's childish infatuation, especially when the infatuation is directed at oneself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Twisted Confessions

Twisted confessions  
I love you; want you  
Broken dreams  
You forever with me; happy ever after  
Shattered hopes  
You want me; not really, so I hide and cry  
Lying screams  
I hate you; love you

 

Over the years, he had amassed enough of these to publish a book. They were good. Maybe it was not too late to send them out, at least have a hardbound copy made for himself; although, he would always treasure the odd and random scraps of paper upon which the original words were penned. Mokuba would kill him, to discover a book like that but it would not matter.

He had known since the beginning who the author of the poems was, no one else could slip past security to enter his offices or bedroom with such ease. That and the first poems where hand written in the loving scrawl that only a twelve year old could muster--like he would not know his brother's handwriting. Yet, he never said a word to the raven-haired imp about knowing the identity of his mysterious shadow poet.

Every holiday, for his birthday or occasionally, just unexpectedly, a poem would show up. On his desk at Kaiba Corp., folded neatly and tucked into his laptop between screen and keys to flutter out when he opened it whether at home or school, propped upon his pillow as he went to retire to bed for the night, he never knew when or where one might materialize.

Once there was one written in the steam upon his bathroom mirror. He had memorized it quickly to write down again as soon as he grabbed pen and paper; later he realized the fact that the appearance of the poem meant Mokuba had been in room with him. Immediately he went to confront his brother, it was too much. He knew, even if Mokuba did not, that it was wrong--his attention should have been elsewhere. What child at that age honestly knew what they wanted in their lives, he thought forgetting his own plans for life made at that time.

Pushing open the door to Mokuba's room, he overheard the boy speaking to a school friend on the phone. The not so whispered conversation, considering no one should have been around to listen in, about poetry and love. Hearing Mokuba's confession of listening in to some of the girls at school the year before giggling silly over poetry written for them by their latest secret or not so secret admirer.

So, that was where he got the idea. He should have known Mokuba would not have done something so odd on his own. Knocking on the door, he opened it further calling out to his brother, "Time for bed."

Mokuba said good-bye to his friend and hung up the phone before snuggling down into his bed. "Niisama? Do you think writing a poem for someone you like is a good idea?"

"I think," he paused taking a deep breath while trying to arrange his thoughts. How could he say anything to his brother without giving him the wrong impression? "I think anyone would be flattered to have someone love them enough to write poetry for them."

"Really?"

"I know it, Mokuba." It was the closest either of them came to out right saying the first word to the other about the poems. "Good night, Mokuba."

"'Night."

That had been over three years ago, they never spoke about the poems again or Mokuba's feelings, Seto preferring to think that one day his brother, realizing how misplaced his love was, would find someone who could return that love. It never happened. Now as he lay in bed, staring at the ceiling in a drunken haze, he realized why. Mokuba had known the truth all along, something he had not been able to face. He did love Mokuba, more than he should considering but he did.

Moonlight danced across the ceiling tiles as the wind swept his curtains out of their way, whipping around the room. He tossed back the last of the liquid in his glass, the burning warmth flowing down his throat before he sat back closing his eyes. He did not hear the door open or footfalls upon the floor; it was only when the bed shifted under another's weight, he knew he was no longer alone. Trying to focus in glazed over eyes, Seto looked up at Mokuba. "You're not supposed to be here," he slurred, only half aware of how much he had been drinking.

Placing a finger across Seto's lips, he hushed him quietly, "Shhh. I'm where I want to be; where you want me to be. Try to deny it."

It was a little hard to deny the pleasure he felt as Mokuba's body straddled his. The way he felt as Mokuba's fingers swiftly parted his shirt, separating buttons from holes in mere moments. Not so soft and gentle caresses by hands now sure of themselves that were determined in their path covered his body. He opened his mouth to deny it all and found he could not, at least not with the taste of Mokuba's mouth on his. Oddly, it wasn't the taste of anything more than the same flavor of whiskey he'd been drinking earlier, only leading him to the conclusion that Mokuba had partaken of his own drink before giving in to the urges they had both fought off so long.

He grabbed at the bottom of Mokuba's shirt pulling it free from where he had it tucked within his jeans. Ripping the shirt up over Mokuba's head, he flung it across the room, not caring where it landed. His own followed shortly as his brother pulled him up off the bed tearing the shirt off his body. Their hands moved to make quick work of buttons and zippers, clothing taking flight out of the way.

Why had they waited so long for this? Mokuba was certainly old enough finally to have some clue how he felt, what he wanted. That was the issue before, Seto convinced himself, and he had waited protecting Mokuba. Now the sweet touch of his brother's hands as they slid over his skin was driving him crazy and the obviousness of Mokuba's arousal pressed firm against his own. The warm body, hard and tempting under his touch, blue-gray eyes that begged for more; how could he resist when Mokuba pleaded with him, "Please, don't make me wait any longer."

Reaching over to dresser, he grabbed the first thing he found--a bottle that would do for the intended purpose. As Mokuba sat back, their hands met warming the cool liquid between their palms and entwined fingers before slipping around Seto's throbbing cock. Did it really take the eternity that it seemed to before their bodies were ready for each other? Seto knew it was more that the moment was so completely surreal. There was no way time could have stood still; although when Mokuba slowly lowered himself down, taking Seto into his tight body, he did forget to breathe.

It was heaven. It was hell. The perfect connection between the two of them, and it was all going to end too soon. Mokuba's body rocked in near desperation, jarring them both. Seto pushed him farther back with one hand upon his chest, the other reaching for his erection. It took a lot to keep it up, thrusting into Mokuba as he jerked him off, not giving in to his own urge to come every time Mokuba's eyes fluttered opened to stare at him when he hit particularly deep.

The soft gasping pants, moans, and noises coming from his brother were driving him wild, such wonderful sounds. The way his long black strands of hair flew around Mokuba's face, such a wonderful sight. His body tensed around Seto, muscles clinched tight as his orgasm hit, splashing over Seto's hand and stomach. Without pause, he continued moving up and down on Seto's cock. Eyes darkened to gray from emotion stared down into blue. "Seto, complete me." Everything exploded into black.

Seto was alone when he woke the next morning, sheets twisted and stuck around him; his head reminding him not so gently of the reasons he did not, under normal circumstances, drink. The small white envelope sitting next to his pillow caught his eye as he slowly rolled over in the bed. Shocked, he grabbed it quickly tearing it open, knowing there was no logical reason for it to be there or any way for it to be what he suspected it to be. However it was, another poem written out in his brother's handwriting--the words glaring at him accusingly.

 

I give you all of me  
And yet, you still refuse  
To take that final step  
And dance with me.

Seduction comes on padded feet  
Hidden from prying eyes  
I slip into dreams of you  
And feel your love of me.

Take me  
Own me  
Heart and soul  
Make me yours forever more.

I want to feel you deep  
You're already underneath my skin  
My body aches for you each night  
Can't you hear me scream?

My waking dreams of you and me  
Your hands upon my body  
It's only mine, so sad and true  
But I cry your name each time.

You can't hurt me any more   
Than you already have  
Just take away this pain inside  
For no one else will do.

Take me; break me  
Fuck me hard  
Make me scream  
It's you I want.

Deny me no longer  
You can't deny your own desire  
Give in to the fire  
Before it's too late.

 

However, it was too late. Even in his drink or drug induced states of non-being he would always remember that--he had waited too long. Mokuba was gone, only there to haunt his dreams in the night.

Crawling out of bed, he slowly made his way to the bathroom before he vomited on the carpet. After a hot shower to wash away any traces of the previous night's activities, he dressed. Something simple, that he would have never worn before but that Mokuba would have approved of, the light material just enough to cover him; nonetheless, the clothing was only for his benefit, for the ritual. He partook of the same ceremony every morning after Mokuba visited him at night.

Walking out to the back of the mansion's grounds, he took the path to Mokuba's mausoleum. He knew Mokuba would have hated it, too big, too much for him. However, Seto thought it was perfect. Pushing open the outer door, Seto stepped inside his hand already finding its way into his jeans.

When he left again, liquid drops covered the inner walls of the crypt. Not tears, instead a sacrificial calling tempting his departed lover to return once again to him.


End file.
